Poetry Quotes
Being a blesséd writer is a cursed attribute, when you wish to no longer be encompassed by someone and yet you are surrounded by loose leaf papers filled with the sound of his voice.
People are laughing at me today for having holes in my pockets, and ink blood on my fingers- a thirty-something old writer, who strangles words from dictionaries, and feeds on the decay of poetry.
The gilded spiralOf longings within.Our very own cathedralThat points persistently to heaven.
I am sad, like the hot dust on the streetsAnd the music of fresh fallen leavesCaught in a sliding summer breeze.
Dear Forgiveness, you know that recentlywe have had our difficulties and there are many thingsI want to ask you.
No matter how long you behest, to the fruit draped tree. It will do you no best, until a shingle you free.
Pages burnt, memories buried, I wakeor think I'm awake. Or dreaming still?
Because Dad told you he'd be here forever. Because I thought forever was like Mars -- far away.
What I want to know is how you go on when you look aroundand don’t see anywhere you want to go without the only personyou can’t have.
Had I known, I would not have left you, alone beneath those stars, on the night when I last saw you, not knowing it was the last.
Now and then, I remember you in timesUnbelievable. And in places not made for memoryBut for the transient, the passing that does not remain.
No one else was as close and as open, No one else so boiled my blood, Even he, who consigned me to torment, Even he, who caressed and forgot.
love canembellish its beginningsing its blossomingand engrave its eternitiesbut can never explain its loss.
That loss is common would not makeMy own less bitter, rather more:Too common! Never morning woreTo evening, but some heart did break.
Severed and gone, so many years! And art thou still so dear to me, That throbbing heart and burning tears Can witness how I cling to thee?
My choices are rejections, since there is no other way, but what I reject is more numerous, denser, more demanding than before.A little poem, a sigh, at the cost of indescribable loss.
Look up, greet sparks of fire with salted eyes, For he’s a burning atmospheric sigh:One blaze of liquid flame on midnight sky, Soft orbital decay, and last goodbye.
And when I stand in the receiving linelike Jackie Kennedywithout the pillbox hat, if Jackie were fat and had taken enough Klonopinto still an ox, and you w
absencelooks like a lake bed flooded with skysounds like cotton howlingtastes like tear-stained pillowssmells like churning bile and burnt hairfeels like screaming agony, my heart dying and dying
I could simply kill you now, get it over with, who would know the difference? I could easily kick you in, stove you under, for all those times, mean on gin, you rammed words into my belly. (p. 52)
oh. she heard it too-no waters coursing, canyon empty, sun soundless- and the beast your life nowhere hiding (p. 103)
...gripping the rim of the sink you claw your way to stand and cling there, quaking with will, on heron legs, and still the hot muck pours out of you. (p. 27)
...a passing face together with his grief turned you into a weeping Madonna...
I left smiles on your wordless lipsThe night roads- dismal and narrow, dream’s path remains shadowy wideas our lone hearts felt that arrowFrom the Poem 'My Tomorrow
All's taken away: my love and my power.The body, thrown into city it hates, Finds no joy in the sunlight. With every hourThe blood grows colder in my veins.
There lives a weeperin each of us-a silent mourner honoring our despairwhen our willingness slain by helplessness continues to resurrect to be slaughtered again
Sometimesthe things that make you cryare more beautifulthan the thingsthat make you laugh.
I can’t sleep alone anymoreand I get used tocompanytoo quickly. You’re always gone too soon.
There is somethingmystically sadand beautifulabouthowi will neversee youagainbut meet youagain and againin poetry.
If love and beauty were easy to find, they would not exist.Chaos and sadness exist in order for you to find the love and beauty in them. So that love and beauty mean something.It's meant to be hard.
Do not trap yourself into an owl's hooting soundwhere sad nights linger through the blackness of a hound
In past wars only homes burnt, but this timeDon't be surprised if even loneliness ignites.In past wars only bodys burnt, but this timeDon't be surprised if even shadows ignite.
Birds shouldn't be able to find tearsThey are the definition of freedom
I'm pretty lost in becoming all this frost. Bitter, like Winter. Strung-out like a string of pearls.
...in my dream the shadings of your soul are the dark tincture of rain...
Our lives are written by the divine hands of Him we are merely actors destined to complete the roles in the cosmic play. All that would make difference would be how well will you act!
Once we merge with the CoreTrusting the efficiencyOf our Soul’s intentThe Flow becomesThe only possible direction